“Fuck this,” I snarled, hitting the button to change the song to something else. “Rooster” by Alice in Chains came up. A song about the destruction of war seemed oddly appropriate given my feelings and Ace’s mood before he fell asleep, so I left it.
With that, I forced myself to forget thoughts about Lena Clarkson.
Chapter 3
Lena
My fingers hovered over the strings of Bessie, my acoustic guitar, as I sat in the middle of the floor of my living room. An empty notepad was beside me. I’d pushed the glass coffee table off to the far side of the room to give me some space to create.
As I stared out of the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out into the far off mountains that surrounded LA, I strained to think of any new words or melodies to sing or play.
After a long while, I brushed my thumb against one of Bessie’s steel strings, eliciting a faint sound, followed by another. As soon as I got into a decent rhythm, my phone rang.
“Arrgh.”
Frustrated at the interruption, I made the mistake of answering.
“Hello?”
“Is this Lena?” an unrecognizable female voice asked. “I’m Nicole with theLA Gazette,and we’d love to interview—”
I hung up on her mid-sentence.
“What the hell? How do they keep getting my number?” I asked, tossing my phone onto the brown leather sectional so hard it bounced off and hit the floor. Hard.
“Time for a new number?”
Startled, I turned to find my cousin and sometimes bodyguard, Rayven, entering through the door. I’d almost forgotten she’d made a run to grab us some coffee and the mail.
“And a new phone,” I answered while staring down at the thoroughly cracked screen. “I bet he’s the one giving out my damn number,” I seethed, looking my cousin in the eye.
“Probably,” Rayven said. “The bastard.”
I huffed and followed Rayven and the smell of my favorite almond slow roast from the shop down the street.
“You should probably stop giving him your number when you change it,” Rayven said as I sat down at the kitchen table.
“I didn’t give him my latest number.” I took a sip of my coffee and closed my eyes with a sigh. “I hope this caffeine wakes me up,” I said, my eyes still closed. “I was up half the night trying to write and still couldn’t get to sleep.”
Rayven snorted. “Trust me, I heard you in there. All of the money you spent buying this place, you’d think the walls would be a little thicker.” Glancing around the kitchen, she frowned.
I turned my head, looking out at the white walls, island, and granite countertops as if I hadn’t lived here for the past five years.
“I didn’t even want this place,” I murmured, referring to the multimillion dollar, four thousand plus square foot condo. “Nate wanted it.”
Rayven made some sort of derisive sound at the back of her throat. Something she often did when the subject turned to that of my ex-fiancé.
“Did you come up with anything new?” she asked.
My heart sank along with my shoulders. “Nothing last night. But right before you came in, I started working on something. Want to hear it?”
I hopped up out of my chair, not waiting for Rayven’s response, and rushed to the living room for my guitar.
Within a minute, I was back in the kitchen, Bessie perched on my lap, trying to remember the melody I played before that reporter interrupted me.
“Let’s hear it,” Rayven said, lifting her hands and gesturing toward the guitar.
“Gimme a sec.” I wiggled my fingers, trying to recall the notes. Finally, I remembered, and the sound came flooding back. I moved my fingers over the strings, playing slowly, tentatively.
